


Area of Expertise

by oh_johnny



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_johnny/pseuds/oh_johnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dealing with John's periodic depression is just not in Paul's  comfort zone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Area of Expertise

**Author's Note:**

> Another old fic from LJ, this one from the BeatlesSlash fandom

Paul sat on a chair in the dark hotel room watching the sunrise. Every now and then a noise from the bed would draw his attention, but it was just John making little sounds, almost but not quite talking in his sleep. Paul was glad he was able to sleep, thought that sleep was probably what John needed most right now.

Besides, if John woke he might want to talk, and Paul didn’t really know what to say.

John had always been subject to depression. A black cloud would just settle over him and he would begin to despair about everything in his life. Usually it was Ringo who dealt with him then. Ringo, who dealt with black clouds of his own, seemed to be able to get through when no one else could. When Ringo wasn’t available George had a go. His success rate wasn’t as good as Ringo’s but he did seem to be able to help.

But last night neither of them had been available. They’d found a pair of birds and were out on the town, leaving Paul to cope with John.

This just wasn’t Paul’s area of expertise. He knew that. He’d tried bluff heartiness, but John just turned his back. He’d tried logical persuasion, and got in return John’s shut up you stupid fucker stare. He’d tried commiseration, and John had slapped his hand away.

He felt like he did when some bird got all weepy on him – inadequate and frustrated.

In the end he’d gone for a shower to get ready for bed. When he’d come out of the bathroom, freshly scrubbed wearing clean pyjama bottoms, he’d found John curled up on the bed, the very picture of misery.

It had broken his heart.

So he’d done the only thing he knew how to do, the only thing that had ever worked with a bird. He’d curled up behind John, put his arms around him, and muttered soothing noises in his ear.

They’d lain like that a long time, Paul trying to offer relief and John just accepting being held.

Eventually they’d shifted positions, John turning to lie in Paul’s arms, to rest his head against Paul’s neck.

And then he’d begun to cry. Not big gulping sobs, just gentle tears, rolling down his face and onto Paul’s neck, gathering in the hollow behind his collarbone. Paul, in awe that John would be so vulnerable, had rocked him gently in his arms, hands stroking his hair. Remembering how his mother used to soothe him when he was a child, he’d pressed gentle kisses on John’s brow, murmured a steady stream of “There, there” and “It’ll be all right, you’ll see” over him.

And then. Well. Then John’s head had moved and Paul’s head had moved and, somehow, their mouths met. A gentle kiss, nothing more, a breath of a sigh, a passing brush of lips flavoured with scotch and toothpaste. But definitely a kiss. Then another. And another. Kisses which became more intimate, more substantial, more real each time.

Nothing more than kissing in the dark. But nothing less, either.

Eventually, John had succumbed to the exhaustion of emotion and had fallen asleep in Paul’s arms. Paul had stroked his hair gently for a while and then he, too, had gone to sleep.

And now he watched the sunrise and smoked a cigarette and waited for John to wake.


End file.
